"Of angels!" sneered Vance. "Of devils, you mean."
"By George!" muttered Bull. "You can't phaze that fellow. I thought he'd be up in barracks, moping, to-day!"
"Probably wants to put up a bluff as if he don't care," was the clever suggestion of the Baby. "I bet he's sore as anything!"
"I told him I'd make him the sickest plebe in the place," growled Bull, "and I'll bet he is, too."
The yearling would have won his bet; there was probably no sadder man in West Point than Mark Mallory just then, even though he did not choose to let his enemies know it.
"Look at him dive!" sneered Baby, watching him with a malignant frown. "He wants to show off."
"Pretty good dive," commented a bystander, who was somewhat more disinterested.
"Good, your grandmother!" cried the other. "Why, I could beat that myself if I knew how to swim!"
And then he wondered why the crowd laughed.
"Come on, let's go in ourselves," put in Bull, anxious to end his small friend's discomfort. "Hurry up, there!"